


The Double Life of Sherlock Holmes

by DoctorRainyStardusttheThird (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coffee, Guns, Sass, anthea's a secret agent, can't stop tagging, everyone's a secret agent, he's NOTHING like in the show, i'm bad at keeping ppl in character but pls read anyway, john and lestrade are CLUELESS, loved sherlock and janine, sherlock has a personality transplant, sherlock's a secret agent, this is the craziest thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 03:05:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15379317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DoctorRainyStardusttheThird
Summary: After a dramatic rescue, John, Lestrade and Donovan learn there's an awful lot more to Sherlock Holmes than they ever imagined.Namely, a whole other life.And John, Lestrade and Donovan are catapulted into a life of secret agents, terrorists and a Sherlock who's Actually Had Sex. Repeatedly.And they are utterly unprepared.





	The Double Life of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote this for myself but then i thought, hey? why not post it?
> 
> but this means there are a lot of details that are unexplained and make no sense but i will explain them in later chapters if u hang in there ;)
> 
> but if there's something you don't understand, mention it in the comments and i'll reply and explain. hopefully.
> 
> i hope you like, this is the craziest thing i've ever written and i'll be amazed if anyone actually reads it.
> 
> but enjoy xx

Lestrade looked around. ‘Still no sign of Sherlock?’

‘No,’ John replied. ‘I’d expected him to be here by now, I admit.’

Donovan made a small, derisive noise. ‘Probably caught up in something way more important,’ she said sourly.

This was the fifth murder in three months. Lestrade was now certain they were dealing with a serial killer. They’d all been killed the same way – a shot to the heart, and another to the head. Systematic, almost as if they were executions. The victims were all aged from late-twenties to early forties, male and female. Not particularly proficient or important – relatively everyday jobs. Sherlock had turned up at a couple of the crime scenes, but according to John he was ‘busy’ all the time these days. ‘Hardly ever see him,’ he’d said, shrugging. ‘Rushes in and out without talking. Can’t get anything out of him.’

Sherlock had turned up, but he still hadn’t solved the murder. He’d also not shot off his rapid-fire deductions with his usual certainty. He was acting secretive. Something about the bodies upset him, and Lestrade got the feeling he was holding back.

And now he hadn’t turned up to this scene. Lestrade had texted John, sensing he needed to get of the flat where Sherlock had been a ghostly presence these last few days.

It was only six, but with the heavy Autumn came early darkness. The scientists which had been inspecting the body inside the derelict house were long gone, but Donovan, Lestrade and John were on the tarmac outside waiting for Sherlock.

Lestrade heard the car before he saw it. It was sleek, silver, with tinted windows. Time seemed to slow down as it skidded round the corner and screamed towards where he, John and Donovan stood frozen in its path.

Suddenly there was a blur of blue and Donovan felt something warm and hard ram into her. She screwed her eyes shut, certain it was the end. But the screech of tyres continued. The car…it hadn’t hit her.

Groggy and disorientated, she sat up. She, Lestrade and John were clustered on the pavement, having been knocked out of the path of the oncoming car. By…by…

Donovan looked up, and understood. Sherlock was stood in front of the car, shooting from a pistol held in a steady hand. Lestrade grabbed her and John and shoved them further back, leaning over them to protect them as screams and shots rang out.

From under Lestrade’s arm, Donovan watched in disbelief as the scene played out in slow-motion before her.

Sherlock was walking across the path of the car, Belstaff coat flapping out behind him. He was shooting repeatedly at the windscreen of the car, which was smashed. She saw him falter once, as the car slid to a stop and the door flew open. The edge of the bonnet caught Sherlock’s side, but the detective didn’t appear to even feel the pain. Two men emerged, pistols aimed at Sherlock. Distantly, Donovan heard Lestrade’s heavy, terrified breathing in her ear.

Separating, the three bystanders scrambled backwards, still lying on the pavement. Evidently out of bullets, the men and Sherlock collided.

Donovan fumbled for her radio, but it had been kicked out of reach. _Fuck._ Why were there no proper policemen here? Detectives and scientists were clever, but they weren’t much use in a situation like this. She could tell Lestrade was thinking the same way as her, and his eyes met hers in a moment of panic.

They both struggled to hold John back. ‘Sherlock!’ the blogger yelled. ‘Sherlock!’

Donovan and Lestrade huddled against the pavement, watching in disbelief. Night had fallen, and they could only make out dim shapes in the sickly glow of a nearby streetlamp.

Sherlock was tackling the two men with a ferocity and skill that was quite terrifying. Donovan heard Lestrade’s quiet, ‘Oh my God,’ as they watched.

Sherlock had his pistol and he was beating the men relentlessly. They were clearly trained fighters, moving with a frightening swiftness and sureness, but Sherlock was wearing them down. His muscles shifted as he caught one round the head with his bullet-less pistol, then took the legs out from under the other. Neither stayed down long, but with the ease of someone who’d done this many times before, Sherlock swung round and whacked one on the jaw, and he slid to the floor, out cold. The other man let out a howl of fury and wrapped his hands round Sherlock’s neck, but in a fluid, practised move Sherlock brought him to the tarmac below.

With a click, Sherlock reloaded his gun and levelled it between the man’s eyes.

‘Don’t move,’ the detective warned. He barely even seemed winded.

Slowly, Lestrade sat up. John sprung to his feet.

Shaking, Donovan took Lestrade’s proffered hand. ‘Jesus,’ she breathed. ‘Jesus Christ.’

They hurried over to Sherlock. The road was covered in broken glass. The car was a smoking wreck beside them. Sherlock’s body had made a dent in the edge of the bonnet.

 The detective in question was turning out the unconscious man’s pockets, until he found a gun and another round of bullets. He loaded the shotgun and pointed it at him, in case he woke up

Sherlock kept the other gun pointed at the guy he was standing over. Sherlock was talking to him, quiet and fast, but the whoever he was, he was refusing to talk.

‘Oh, God, Sherlock,’ Lestrade panted. ‘You alright, mate?’

Not moving the guns, Sherlock said, ‘don’t call the police.’

Donovan paused from where she was already tapping 999 into her mobile with trembling fingers. ‘Why not?’ she spat. ‘I know you don’t rate us, but this is a fucking shoot out, in case you hadn’t noticed!’

‘I had noticed,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘Viktor Markovic isn’t it?’ he said to the man beneath him. ‘Serbian.’ He began to speak in another language, guttural and low. He seemed to be demanding something.

‘I’m calling the police,’ Donovan insisted.

‘Don’t!’ Sherlock turned and levelled a gun on her.

‘Christ, Sherlock!’ John howled, rushing forwards.

Sherlock scratched his forehead with the gun. ‘I really can’t be doing with the police right now.’

Lestrade gaped. Was he serious?

‘What I need,’ Sherlock said, breathing slowing down, ‘is for you three to stay exactly where you are while I work out if my comms are broken.’

The three exchanged uneasy glances. Sherlock wasn’t making any sense, but he was also holding two loaded guns.

‘Okay, Sherlock, mate,’ Lestrade began, in a soothing voice.

‘No, they’re evidently not,’ Sherlock sighed. He didn’t sound frightened, or even concerned, despite the fact his eye was dripping blood and a stain was spreading across the shoulder of his Belstaff coat. ‘God’s sake. No, don’t you move!’ Sherlock pressed the barrel of the gun between the Markovic’s eyes. ‘Mycroft?’

John stepped forwards. ‘Your brother isn’t here, Sherlock,’ he said, in a calming tone. Clearly, he thought Sherlock had gone mad.

‘Shut up!’ Sherlock was speaking rapid-fire to no one. ‘I need your best people this time, Mycroft. Not those crap idiots you sent before. He’s in my ear,’ Sherlock explained to the three people, who were staring at him. Sherlock’s dark curls shifted to reveal an almost invisible communications device in his left ear. John gave a small ‘oh!’ of realization. Sherlock went on talking to Mycroft. ‘Why did it have to be you?’ he muttered. ‘In fact, just send my team. At least they listen when I give them orders, which is more than I can say for some people.’ For some reason he threw Lestrade and John a look as he said this. ‘I’ll bring them in. Send Anthea, but tell her I’m driving. I trust you’ll take care of the rest.’

There was a small pause. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Viktor Markovic,’ he said. ‘And…I’m guessing Kris Himmler, is that right?’ The man Sherlock was standing over, Markovic, gave a stiff nod. Himmler was still out cold.

‘Shut up, Mycroft, or I will just disconnect,’ Sherlock huffed.

At that moment, a dark vehicle drew up, and the Lestrade and Donovan stiffened. John barely seemed to notice. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

Quietly, figures emerged from the car, and circled them. They had rifles, and John instinctively raised his hands, Lestrade and Donovan following suit.

‘It’s okay, they’re not here for you,’ Sherlock reassured. It wasn’t reassuring. ‘But that is.’

Another car had drawn up. More tinted windows. Lestrade huffed. ‘Are you gonna tell us what the hell is going on? We nearly get hit by a car, then suddenly you’re shooting the crap out of someone and now we’re surrounded by –‘ the detective inspector took a good look around, ‘MI5 agents, by the look of it –‘

‘MI6, there is a difference,’ Sherlock corrected quietly. There were five agents, who calmly removed he unconscious Himmler and escorted Markovic by gunpoint to the waiting car, the first one which had arrived. Sherlock tucked away both guns into his pocket. ‘Now, there’s our ride.’

He walked over to the second car. Lestrade, Donovan and John had no choice but to follow. This one was long and fancy, clearly expensive. As they approached, the driver’s window wound down.

‘Hello, Anthea,’ Sherlock said, his voice remarkably pleasant.

‘Hello, Holmes the younger,’ she replied coolly. Anthea was pretty, Donovan noticed. Really pretty, with her tan skin and tawny curls and business suit. She didn’t look up from her mobile phone.

Sherlock turned to the three people behind him, who were standing dumbfounded. ‘Get in.’

‘Seriously?’ John said. ‘We’ve nearly been killed tonight, I want to call the police and then get home, please.’

‘Yes, you were nearly killed John. You’re witnesses now. And by the way, I saved your life. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.’ Sherlock stepped back and gestured emphatically with the gun. ‘In.’

They got in.

Sherlock leant over to Anthea. ‘I’m driving, Anthea. You’re atrocious at driving, plus I wouldn’t want to interrupt your texting.’ He raised an eyebrow at the mobile in her hand. Usually, as a police officer, Lestrade would’ve been required to say something about the dangers of texting while driving, but these weren’t exactly normal circumstances. ‘Let me guess, my darling brother.’

‘You realise he’s probably listening through our comms,’ Anthea said, wriggling into the passenger’s seat.

Sherlock folded himself into the driver’s seat with a wince. ‘Oh, I can guarantee it.’

John, Donovan and Lestrade were squashed up uncomfortably in the back seat as Sherlock fired up the car. They had no idea what was going on, but Sherlock knew, and hopefully they were going somewhere where they’d get some answers.

As they pulled away, Anthea glanced casually at the bloodstain on Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘You get shot?’

‘Just a flesh wound,’ Sherlock said, with a one-armed shrug.

‘Hang on,’ Donovan said loudly. ‘He’s not driving us around if he’s been shot!’

‘Relax, I’ve had worse,’ Sherlock said, in a voice that was probably meant to be reassuring.

‘What, like that time you had a major head wound from that terror attack in Buenos Aires?’ Anthea muttered, smirking. ‘That was terrifying. And we were on a motorbike.’

‘There’s a certain drunken escapade I could mention,’ Sherlock said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘where the stolen van ended up in the Nile.’

Donovan blinked. If she didn’t know better, she’d say that Sherlock was interacting with another human being like they were almost equal – almost _chatting._ His tone was light and friendly, and he wasn’t being rude or off-putting. He must know this Anthea girl really well, or something.

She could tell Lestrade had gone into information overload. ‘Buenos Aires?’ he mouthed. ‘Van in the Nile?’

John shrugged.

Anthea’s phone lit up with another message. ‘He’s asking if you need a doctor.’

‘Tell him I’ve already got a bloody doctor with me.’

Anthea tapped out a message.

‘You’re smiling,’ Sherlock said.

‘Stop deducing me,’ Anthea scowled.

‘Honestly, Anthea, it’s been, what, two months? Moving on a bit fast, aren’t we?’

‘There’s nothing between Mycroft and me!’

‘Straight from one brother to the next.’

‘Scott, we slept with each other _once.’_

The three squashed up in the back exchanged glances. Not just about the unfamiliar name, but also, because, well…

‘Should’ve stuck with me, I’m better looking.’

Anthea punched him in the shoulder – the good one. ‘How’s Janine?’ she asked pointedly.

John could see Sherlock’s face soften, even with the coming bruises shadowing it and the gloom of the dimly-lit car. ‘She’s good. It’s been a while.’

‘You realise she’s probably slept with half the service while you were gone.’

‘Well, to be fair, she must be awfully bored. Nothing to do now the Magnussen case is shut.’

‘Can’t really blame her. You’re exactly the same way. But both boys and the girls, Holmes the younger?’

‘Double the opportunity.’

‘Explains why you’re so good in bed.’

Donovan grimaced at Lestrade. She did not need to hear this.

‘You know, there’s a matter of national security we could be talking about instead.’

Anthea rolled her eyes. There was a small pause while Sherlock slid round a corner, deftly spinning the steering wheel one-handed. Lestrade gave a yelp when he realized how fast they were going. ‘Sherlock, you’re going well over seventy!’

‘Am I?’ Sherlock checked the speed monitor. ‘Oh yeah.’

He didn’t slow down.

They sat in silence for a little while, Anthea still texting. Then she spoke, asking, ‘who was it this time?’

Sherlock didn’t reply for a moment. When he did, his voice was more serious, even sad. ‘Will Barrington.’

Anthea nodded slowly. ‘They’re not showing any signs of easing up.’

‘Nor is Mycroft,’ Sherlock said heavily.

Finally, they pulled up outside an enormous skyscraper. The windows were all tinted, some blacked out, but other than that it looked totally state of the art. They were in an expensive part of London, surrounded by the offices of massive companies – media buildings and government headquarters.

Two armed men greeted them as they got out of the car. Sherlock and Anthea shook their hands and smiled, while Donovan, Lestrade and John stumbled out of the car like they’d just woken up with an extreme hangover. Adrenaline comedown does that to you.

‘These are the witnesses?’ one of the men said.

‘Yes,’ Anthea said.

‘Follow me.’

They were lead into the building. It was brightly lit, and starkly modern, like it was straight out of dystopian novel or something. Glass desks and huge darkened windows and soaring ceiling. A couple of people shot them curious looks. They waved their hands in friendly greeting when they saw Sherlock. He grinned in return.

‘Mycroft’s office,’ he told the men. They walked over to an elevator and were directed in. Then the two men peeled away and the group of five ascended alone.

The elevator ride was awkward, to say the least.

When the got to the top, the found themselves alone. As they crossed the floor, a woman approached.

She had soft dark hair and was wearing a blue shirt and dark jeans. When she saw Sherlock her eyes lit up.

‘Hi, Scott.’ She looped her arms round his neck.

Sherlock smile, looking kinder and gentler than John would’ve believed possible. ‘Hey, Janine. You okay?’

‘Great. Mycroft’s waiting.’ She had a thick Irish accent.

Then she gave him a long, lingering kiss.

John coughed and examined the ceiling. Donovan and Lestrade were determinedly not looking at each other. Anthea just appeared vaguely amused.

‘If we could speed this along, guys…national emergency and all that…maybe do this later?’

Sherlock and Janine broke apart. ‘I’ve got blood on you,’ Sherlock said apologetically.

‘Not the first time. I’ve got a good drycleaner.’

Anthea coughed meaningfully. The group moved off again.

They found themselves in a spacious office. The main feature was a large desk, featuring three laptops and a series of memory sticks. Behind it sat Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft.

Mycroft looked his brother up and down disapprovingly. ‘You got shot.’

‘A little bit.’

Mycroft then turned his gaze to Donovan, Lestrade and John, who were looking bewildered and rather bedraggled. ‘Please take a seat.’

They sat in the handsome leather armchairs that seemed to be waiting for them. Anthea perched on the edge of the desk. Sherlock and Janine leant against the edge of it, kissing again.

Mycroft was watching with distaste. ‘If we could maybe do this _later.’_

John cleared his throat. ‘What the fuck is going on, Mycroft?’

Mycroft leant forward, steepling his fingers together. ‘You are witnesses,’ he began slowly, ‘and you are here so we can debrief you. After you are done here we’ll send you home in a cab and you can forget this ever happened.’

Lestrade unfolded his arms. ‘Sherlock? Is he a witness too?’

Janine brushed Sherlock’s hand with her fingers. ‘I still can’t get used to them calling you that, Scott.’

‘Uh – excuse me, but why do you call him Scott?’ John interjected.

‘All in good time,’ Mycroft said soothingly. ‘First things first. Are any of you injured? Good, didn’t think so.’

Donovan winced as she shifted in her chair. ‘I think Sherlock bruised my side when he –‘

‘Saved your life,’ Sherlock put in mildly.

‘Yeah.’ Donovan shrank back. ‘That.’

‘Shouldn’t someone see to Sherlock?’ John said.

‘I’ll head to the infirmary after, John, don’t fret,’ Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

‘Sorry, but – where are we?’ Lestrade said, asking the useful questions.

Mycroft sat back. ‘MI6 headquarters.’

‘It’s quite small,’ John said in surprise. Maybe it was the shock talking.

‘Yes, well,’ Mycroft agreed, ‘this place is even more secret, even more vital. Half of MI6 don’t know it exists, and the rest haven’t set foot into this office. Know that if you breathe a word I have not authorized you to, I could have you arrested or executed faster than you can tell the truth.’

Donovan felt cold at the threatening tone of voice. ‘Wait – MI6?’

‘Well – technically, but not really. Here, we work outside the secret service but not against the secret service, if you know what I mean.’

Donovan didn’t, really, but she nodded anyway.

‘Cigarette, anyone?’ Mycroft said. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

Sherlock held out his hand. Janine lit his cigarette for him and they passed it back and forth, coughing a little. It’d been a while since either had had a cigarette.

Mycroft tossed Lestrade the packet and a lighter. Once the detective inspector had taken a drag, he felt a lot better.

‘Now,’ Mycroft began. ‘Tell me – in your own words, you three – everything you know about the latest case, and the events of today. Quickly, we have important things to do.’

Anthea fiddled with a little recording device, then propped it onto the desk.

‘Um,’ Lestrade began.

‘In your own time, of course.’ Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Donovan huffed. This Mycroft Holmes was worse than Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to have had a complete personality transplant since he’d saved them from being hit by the car. She vaguely wondered if they’d checked  for head wounds.

‘Five identical murders, shot to the head and chest, some victims showed signs of trying to fight back, bruised knuckles and the like,’ Lestrade reeled off.

‘Okay.’

‘Over…three months. Irregular intervals between, no pattern, few similarities between victims. So...yeah.’

‘So Scott didn’t tell you anything,’ Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock looked pissed. ‘Of course I didn’t! I told you that.’

‘You’re an excellent liar, little brother. Part of the job.’

‘Sorry – what hasn’t Sherlock told us?’ John said, determined to get some answers this time.

‘Now describe the attack.’ Mycroft sipped his tea. ‘We have security footage, but we prefer to hear the witnesses’ own accounts.’

‘We were waiting for Sherlock,’ John began.  ‘Car came out of nowhere and…’

‘Sherlock pushed us out of the way. Tried to shoot them,’ Donovan added.

‘What happened then?’

Lestrade realised everyone in the room was listening intensely now. ‘Uh – the men in the car got out, and Sherlock fought them.’

‘Once Sherlock appeared, they stopped the car? They didn’t continue in your direction? The footage wasn’t clear.’

‘No,’ John confirmed.

‘Right,’ Mycroft leaned back. ‘Good. You’re not the target. None of you. So you can just,’ he said mildly, waggling his fingers, ‘pop off home now. Watch a bit of telly, isn’t that what you goldfish do in your spare time?’

‘Wait, Mycroft,’ Sherlock said sharply. ‘Even if they aren’t useful to Moran and his cronies, they were still targeted. Because Moran wanted to get to me. What’s to say he won’t try again?’

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged terrified looks. John had his soldier face on again.

‘Mm,’ Mycroft said. ‘You make a valid point, brother mine, for once in your life. Well done.’

Sherlock scowled.

‘I suppose…’ Mycroft said, ‘you’ll have to go into a witness protection programme.’

_‘Why?_ ’ John was angry now.  ‘Tell. Us. _Why.’_

Mycroft frowned.

Anthea smirked. ‘Tell them, Mike. I want to see their faces.’

Sherlock raised a practised eyebrow at  her.

Mycroft sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain.’

**Author's Note:**

> so hope you liked :)
> 
> comment, leave kudos, lots of pls pls pls xx
> 
> i think donovan is bi and might have a bit of a thing for anthea ;)
> 
> hope you liked, hope you liked xx


End file.
